


Repeat the Same Routine

by deathwailart



Series: The Courts [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood, Character Study, Death, Gen, Supernatural Elements, Urban Fantasy, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One hundred and fifty-six years since his world was changed forever.  Or what it means to learn how to be a vampire and stay human at the same time.  Part of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/718075/chapters/1330354">this</a> verse.</p>
<p>Title from Every Day Is Exactly the Same by Nine Inch Nails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repeat the Same Routine

One hundred and fifty-six years since his world was changed forever. Twenty years of normal life and that's nothing to him now even though it seemed a lifetime then when you were judged an adult or at least expected to act like one so much earlier than now. Or maybe that's just him and being around this long. So twenty years of being brought up with wealth and comfort with one older brother and one younger sister, servants and maids; he was a young Victorian man with everything he could possibly want. A handsome young man with pale skin from never having to work a day in his life and a mop of neatly combed dark hair, always dressed in the finest clothing. Things he didn't appreciate then because there was always more and he simply frittered his money – father's money from his shipping business and the money from mining from his mother's side – on stupid things. Larking around with his friends, staggering home drunk and of course the ladies on the corners. One who sank her teeth into his neck and changed his life forever, her grinned and laughed, kissed him with a mouth that was a vicious red slash and left him there. He doesn't like to dwell on the intervening years where he hungered for blood. When the light burned his skin and almost blinded him, everything a struggle as his senses became sharper: taste, sight, smell.  
  
There was a fear in him that was so prevalent then: vampire. But what would they do?  
  
In time he found out when he attacked a servant one day, lashing out and ripping at the man's throat with his mouth, gulping and _finally_ feeling well for the first time in too long. Alive and not as though he had to wade against the tide where the world was too harsh and bright. Then had come the frantic hushing up by the family, sending him away to doctors – they said he was dead in the end, said he'd had a blow to the head and had never recovered, a tragic loss of a promising young man – who bounced him around, tutted, shook their heads, drew blood and dosed him with everything imaginable. And then, when all hope was gone, when they'd scratched their heads and left him thrashing around, choking and sobbing or drooling as he stared at the ceiling, they'd sent him to the church. Shameful whispers, feeding him up but not what he wanted. He remembered blood on his tongue and teeth, flowing down his throat – too rich, too hot and so foreign, not a taste he'd like but it wasn't about the taste, there was something more, something he couldn't explain that left him feeling strong. Whenever a nurse or doctor bent close it was all he could do not to lash out and bite. It took a long time for the restraint marks to heal from where they strapped him down so he couldn't attack them. At the church his skin had itched. _Mark of the Devil,_ the priest said with his grave voice and face marred with wrinkles, _We must purge this demon from him, cleanse him so that he might be healed of this affliction._ They gave him food to see him through it and then they stood over him, fearful nuns and old men, incense pungent in the air as they chanted to let go of this young man, for him to come into the light, brandishing their bible and crucifixes, splashing holy water. He'd thought himself cursed. He'd screamed. He'd howled. Sobbing and pleading until at last something rose within him, some instinct – at the time he'd thought it was the demon, thought it was that monster within remembering a bite to his neck and blood being forced down his throat, succubus or some other demon sent to lead men astray – telling him to fight. Somehow he'd summoned the will to break free, clattering past them and he only stopped running when exhaustion claimed him.  
  
Seven years. Seven years of scraping by in the shadows. He didn't know that until later. Every day bled into the next as he let himself starve. He ate food, he drank what he could and often it was rotting or foul but when he became sick, it passed. It was the blood he starved himself from. Every day he curled away because it hurt him and though he didn't always sleep, he replayed what had happened to him at first, that mocking smile from what he'd thought was a prostitute, her curves against him, her mouth on his neck so gentle, almost shy before she'd torn at him like a rabid beast. What had she done to him, forcing him to drink her blood? Was he really what he thought he was? There was a hunger for blood, aversion to sunlight, holy items and words and silver left a burn and yet when he drank blood he could walk out in the day without fear, just another person.  
  
He didn't deserve to be out in the day. He killed. When he was hungry he lunged, as feral as her, blood hot and sticky on his chin with them writhing in agony the way he had when she'd made him, feeling as though he might die. God he wished he had. He killed people and if he'd died then those people would still be alive.  
  
But somehow it got better. People tracked him down – people like him and not like him, people who shouldn't exist, fairies and werewolves and spirits and other vampires – and taught him. So ten years. Ten years of struggling and learning all these new rules for a new world, learning how to lure a person in and to feed carefully, going from person to person to satisfy himself and there were more dead bodies. More guilt. Funny how the guilt had gotten worse once he'd started to feel human again; before he'd been treading water, barely keeping his head above water, once he started to learn and join civilisation again it grabbed hold of him by the ankles and wrists, clambered up his shoulders to rest there. _It'll get easier, you'll get used to it_ , some part of his brain had said. Still said. Would always say every single day. Time – over a century – gave him distance so that the guilt came in unexpected waves that left him dizzy and breathless, leading to days or nights to fester and stew. Because it followed him. In the end only him and Laurent, a werewolf with a friendly smile, dark skin and tight curls, were left alive after hunters tracked them to get payback for Isaac's (not his name then, Isaiah, he'd been Isaiah) kills. They'd had to kill the hunters or be killed themselves. Isaac had wanted to die but Laurent hadn't. And Laurent was a friend. Laurent was the only one who hadn't treated Isaac like a fine china tea cup – he'd been frank: sorry you killed people but I won't hold it against you now that you're learning how not to.  
  
"We need to leave," Laurent had said when they'd made a break for it after burning the evidence of the ones who'd come for them.  
  
"I need to go back, I need to see something first," Isaac had replied and Laurent had nodded then suggested they get supplies first.  
  
He went back home and watched his sister with a suitor.  
  
Decades passed and he didn't go home. He and Laurent went on adventures. They hopped from country to country, changing names, he learned about The Courts who governed the supernatural and kept them safe from harm. He learned to live and laugh and smile. He didn't go back home until he was sure his family would be dead. His grave had iron bars over it and the date he died was the date he'd been sent to the first doctors. He knew why. If only his parents knew how right they were. He goes back whenever he can and doesn't let them crumble or fall into disrepair – people probably talk about it, say how odd it is but let them. It's all he has of where he came from at first when he was still human.  
  
One hundred and fifty-six years. Seven lost in the dark. Ten getting himself on track. One hundred and thirty-nine years since he last killed out of hunger. Two world wars. Countless jobs and countries and miles and one steady friendship for one hundred and forty-nine years. The world changes, he stays the same and keeps counting because no one else will.


End file.
